


In A New York Minute

by chibinocho



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, New York
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-01-25 03:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibinocho/pseuds/chibinocho
Summary: Goran Chopin has been in his own personal hell with Neil Jenison after escaping a mental asylum. Now, as Heath Chopin he wants to make a new start in New York city - a place he barely knows with a new name and no history. Luckily, Joey Shand just so happens to work late on Thursdays.
Relationships: Cho Hakkai/Cho Kanan, Cho Hakkai/Ni Jianyi | Ukoku/Tenpou Gensui, Cho Hakkai/Sha Gojyo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just when you thought there were enough Saiyuki AUs. This will be a multi part series in a loosely linked order as thanks to work and family commitments I can't turn it into some to the more beautiful novels that are on here. However I do have a lot of parts in the pipeline.
> 
> Health Warning - Neil (Ni) and Goran's (Hakkai/Gonou) relationship/agreement is NOT an example of a BDSM relationship and is not intended to be so.

“This isn’t working.”

“Oh I think you will find it is working rather well. Those knots are my best work.”

That at least was true. Goran could barely breathe – let alone move – in the extensive ushiro takate kote he had been trussed up in. At first, Neil’s interest in kinbaku had been an erotic and aesthetic thrill - along with fulfiling Goran's desire for punishment - seeing lines of hempen rope threading around his body and limbs, pulling on muscles and stimulating nerves. Neil had also been careful of his comfort, avoiding his still healing abdomen and not taking him into that black abyss of despair again. That had been months ago, now Goran was wrapping his own abrasions, wearing long sleeves, hoping his wound wouldn’t need medical attention yet again and being plagued by his demons again.

He struggled futilely and inwardly sighed as a loud slap to his backside reminded him to stay still. It throbbed and that hurt no longer felt good.

“Shall I gag you, Goran?” Came the sly, silky voice above him. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

At one point he would have. He would have needed that shut off - that stealing of his voice, his very breath. Not so long ago he would have shuddered with physical sensation at the threat but now the thought only made his guts churn inside with something akin to revulsion. He didn't move, didn't respond.

A pair of spit-slick fingers shoved themselves inelegantly into him, twisting and stretching and he flinched. The burn and the violation had once been a twisted pleasure and he had craved it, begged for it at one point, the harder and more painful the better. Now it was enough. Goran eased himself away from the fingers, shuffled his knees forward on the hand-knotted Persian rug and forced his bound body upright.

“No Neil.” He said calmly, despite the discomfort. “Can we stop this now? All of it?”

There was a leaden silence which seemed to drag into hours finally followed by the soft sound of socks on pile. Neil dropped into the dark leather armchair in front of him, cigarette in hand, flies still undone and his arousal still evident. He was smirking: a grey eyed gaze that seemed to slice through Goran like a scalpel. He made no move to untie the knots, obviously preferring to see Goran on his knees, bound up like a parcel while Goran explained his little outburst.

“Go on then. Let’s hear it.”

“We’re over, Neil and I need to leave.”

Neil leaned back and gave a light laugh. He never took anything seriously.

  
“Right now?” he looked Goran up and down. “I don’t think the doorman will appreciate the sight of you walking through the lobby dressed like that.” He tittered at his own joke and flicked ash lazily at the lalique ashtray on his coffee table. Goran shuffled from one knee to another, trying to keep his circulation going. His arm and legs were tingling against the ropes and the kneeling position. However he had expected this, this had happened countless times in the last ten months. Goran had learned to hide his pain and build his tolerance to such treatment. He stayed resolute.

“You are bored of me.” He said carefully, keeping his voice as reasonable as possible. “And I believe that I no longer need this and want to try to start a life of my own.”

Neil stared coolly, his expression shifted subtly from mild condescension to scientific observation. He had always been this way, Goran had seen it before: during their therapy sessions, where - after ridiculous amounts of provocation - he would spill his heart, his fury and his despair out to that mild looking exterior. Back when their roles had been Dr Neil Jenison and he had been patient 2109 Goran Chopin.

“A life.” Neil mimicked. “And I suppose living here is not the life you expected? And what life do you expect now, my sweet little demon? That society will welcome a formerly-sectioned, officially insane murderer with open arms? That you will be able to do more than trot back and forth to the public library all day? What more, Goran? A little white-washed clapperboard cottage with picket fences with flower beds?" He flicked his cigarette. "You forget, my darling one, that you live here. You have nowhere else to go. And you chose to come here. Don’t forget who engineered your release, who covers for you being missing from Mountain View, who provides you with your freedom. And you wanted me to - what was it you said? - take your punishment to its limit.” He leant down, one arm resting on his thigh and the other gripping Goran’s chin. “And we do have fun together, do we not? You get what you want?”

Goran tugged at his bonds again. It was fruitless of course but it made him feel stronger, it gave him resolve.

“We did, Neil. At first but I assure you this is no longer the case. I wish to leave this relationship.”

Neil threw back his head and laughed.

“A relationship?” he made a show of wiping his eyes. “Ah yes, I suppose it is rather. A state of being connected or mutual agreement. I suppose you could call it that. Well then, how do you propose to end this agreement? I have performed you a requested service have I not? And if I object, what can I expect as my severance package?”

Goran guessed Neil would be this way. It was all games with Dr Neil Jenison with even his job at Mountain View Secure Psychiatric facility being one of chance, gamble and profit. Goran had never met a medical professional so amused by his power. Deaths of patients did little more than to arouse his curiosity. The very worst violent outbursts from patients were merely mild ways to pass an idle morning … and being confronted with a psychologically unhinged mass murderer who craved punishment and violation was too good a game piece to pass up … And having a psychologically unhinged mass murderer who could only get off on pain and humiliation was the perfect little bonus round in the game.

“I have nothing to offer, you know that, Neil.” Goran sighed. “But I am no longer of use to you. Nor you to me.”

Neil looked him up and down quickly before he coolly cast his gaze slowly over Goran once again: the red abrasive marks littering his body, the pale skin almost pulsing around the ropes that were just on the edge of ‘too tight’, the mussed dark hair shining slightly with sweat, the green eyes that were ringed with dark circles and – finally – down to his flaccid cock. His expression betrayed a slight hint of annoyance for a split second before settling into its benign mockery.

“Shame. Such a pretty face, pretty figure and a perfectly pretty and serviceable little mouth.” He ran his fingers across his lips as if remembering the countless times Goran had serviced him before meeting Goran’s gaze head on. Minutes seemed to pass while they stared at each other - the doctor and the patient - each one daring the other to act. Goran could see Neil trying to work out for how long Goran had been this way. How long his medication hadn’t been effective. All those times Goran had lain passively underneath him, exactly how passive had Goran really been? How long had he been fully lucid? Goran could see the calculations running across Neil’s face and his expression became dark. It had taken nearly three months to do it but Goran had finally undercovered Doctor Neil Jenison’s weakness: his pride… And Goran’s little deception with the medication and flawless acting ability had broken that pride in two.

Finally Neil slapped his thighs with a cynical chuckle. “Well then that’s that isn’t it? Our deal is at an end and you are free to go into the big wide world Goran Chopin. You were an interesting experiment I will say, I wondered how long you would last.”  
Goran met his gaze quizzically.

“I beg your pardon? An experiment? I don’t believe I am understanding you.”

Neil was back in control now. He stretched lazily in his chair like a cat and cupped himself languidly. He was hardening again. He had always gotten off on Goran's discomfort.

“An experiment my naïve, sweet one. A research subject. A luscious little lab rat. I wanted inside that head of yours. To find out exactly how a mild-mannered good little Catholic boy was capable of incest, untold violence, mass murder and could tolerate every possible psychiatric drug pumped down that delicious little throat. I wanted to find out exactly how much you could take, what exactly makes you lose your dignity, what gets you to submit to another. Your desire for punishment is so immense that you crave it for any kind of sexual fulfilment and your pain threshold is truly astonishing. I must say you have surpassed all my expectations; you should be so proud. I am sure Katerina would be.”

“Never mention her name!” Goran spat suddenly, his control evaporating in a single instant. He pulled furiously at his bonds and flinching as the movement from his arms pulled on the black rope encircling his cock. Neil was right, the knotwork really was his best yet. Neil’s hand was moving rhythmically now, taking an obvious pleasure in Goran’s fury. That was why he had kept Goran there after all.

_Goran was spread-eagled on the bed, flinching as the leather straps around his groin and back were buckled firmly into place, holding the large rubber phallus firmly inside him. No lube had been used and his anus burned, most likely bleeding. Goran remembered reading on the BDSM website earlier that morning about the importance of trust and of safe words and had approached this with Neil. Neil had laughed at the very notion, shrugging off their need as something that was purely for strangers and lovers. And they weren’t strangers or lovers were they? Goran breathed through the pain, gripped the chains of the cuffs holding him to the bed posts and tried not to squirm when the suede flogger slapped gently across his shoulder. He pushed his arousal against the smooth cotton of the bed and gave a faint moan._

_“Hurts doesn’t it. Such a deliciously sweet burn?” came the hushed whisper in his ear, the flogger slapped again - harder than before - and Goran moaned. “Oh you need this, you deserve it. You wish you had been in her place. You wanted it to be you.”_  
_“No!” he twisted and thrashed in his bonds which only added more pressure to the toy penetrating him. He squirmed again and as the flogger landed with pin-sharp accuracy across his back. Flesh seared and burned and he felt his orgasm build. Finally with one hard whip crack of fire across his back, he found his sobbing release suddenly overtaking him with choking intensity…._

Goran pushed the memory aside and fought down his rage. He would not dwell on the past. He could not live like this any longer. He would not live like this any longer. Katerina would never have wanted this for him. He clutched at the thought.

“My life is no longer your personal experiment.” He reiterated. “I will be leaving this apartment imminently and I would ask you to untie my bonds so that I may do so.”

“Now now, Goran. Let’s not get – aha – heated here.” Neil gave that all-knowing smile only this time it was laced with a ice-cold coolness. “I will be only too happy to free you from our arrangement … once you have worked your notice period of course.”

Goran raised an eyebrow, a cold feeling settled in his gut. There it was, Neil would claim the blow to his pride back from Goran by whatever means suited him. Goran would have to endure it. For the sake of his freedom he would endure it. Neil smiled. It was the perfect mixture of mild and deadly.

*****  
A door clicked shut, followed five minutes later by the sound of a revving car engine and Goran finally opened his eyes, feeling light-headed and slightly nauseated. The ropes were gone as promised – although he could still feel and see the whorls of red indentations on his skin – and he was lying on the rug where he had collapsed at the end of their final session. There was a cold, sticky dampness across his groin and thighs from his own ejaculate and as he moved, he felt more stickiness ooze from his tender rear passage and contrast heavily with the hot sting of his well-slapped backside. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright, immediately curling over at the lance of pain through his stomach.

Looking down he saw that the wound was weeping again: the barely sealed - it had split and become infected several times since his arrival here which had prevented it healing properly - scar tissue had struggled to hold against the ruthless onslaught of his ‘notice period’.

With some difficulty, Goran pushed himself upright again and managed to stagger up on shaking legs, trying to ignore the cold wetness sticking on his inner thighs. The apartment was eerily quiet and Goran shivered, casting a glance over to the marble sideboard by the door. Neil’s car keys, phone, coat and leather bag were gone. No note left, but Goran didn’t expect one. He swallowed down his relieved wave of nausea and headed to the bathroom and bedroom.

Surprisingly he took a shower. There was no telling when Neil would return but Goran couldn’t bear the thought of leaving dirty. He let the filth sluice off him, scrubbing at his sticky face and bruised arms until he added a shade of pink to the marks already there, using endless handfuls of the expensive shower gel to wash away what he was. Once satisfied, he returned to the spare bedroom to locate the few possessions he owned in this place. It didn’t take long to find the clothes he had arrived at the apartment in. Stashed on the floor of the large wardrobe was a solitary plastic bag stamped with the lurid blue logo of Mountain View containing a simple pair of chinos, a dark long sleeved t-shirt and a nondescript thin, summer jacket. They hadn't been his originally; they had been taken from the former patients property cupboard at the hospital when Neil escorted him off the premises but it was all he had. He cast an eye at the rows of pressed shirts and pants, all from expensive stores and beautifully kept, but they were bought by Neil and Goran would be damned if he was wearing what Neil had bought him. Goran dressed himself as quickly as he was able and then started to head for the open laptop at the dining table.

It took him less than a minute to log on and pull up the banking website and even less time to alter the numbers and passwords to the accounts he had set up some weeks before. If Neil had noticed the odd amounts disappearing here and there he had never mentioned it, possibly still thinking that Goran's ridiculous amounts of prescription drugs kept his mind addled enough to keep him placidly passive (Goran had been quietly splitting, spitting and disposing of his pills for months). Certainly not committing fraud, identity theft and a small amount of money laundering to build a new identity for his departure.

Or else he just didn’t care. This was Neil after all.

When Goran went to leave was amused to find the door locked and the spare keys missing from their hook. Neil wasn't naive enough to believe that this simple action would contain him, it was merely an inconvenience to make Goran have to adjust his plans. Such adjustments merely involved a few bent wires and a butter knife slipped into the frame in just the right way before the door gave way with a click and Goran slipped out into the corridor of the apartment block. The grey corridors seemed to crash down on him like a blanket and he swallowed in a sudden flash of panic. He hadn’t left the apartment in months. He didn’t even know where he was.

No, it would not do to dwell on his fears.

Rather than have to cross the lobby and face the friendly but firm doorman he was one hundred percent sure was still in residence downstairs, Goran looked about for another solution - finally seeing the large sash window that led to the fire escape. No one was around, it wasn’t alarmed Goran knew, he had at least investigated that much, having seen other residents taking sly smokes out on it. Neil had pretty much ignored the No Smoking ban in the apartments, reasoning that as he was paying for the biggest apartment in the block, he could do what he liked.

One quick movement and Goran was slipping out of the window, standing on the metal slats of the escape and looking down at the alley below. He descended the ladders as carefully and quickly as he could, finally dropping the final few feet jump into the cold darkness of the alley below. A momentary painful twinge on his abdomen reminded him that he couldn’t push it too far. He slowly rose fully to his feet and a blast of wind ran between the buildings and his thin jacket. Goran shivered and realised that it was colder than he had expected. He had so rarely left the apartment that he seemed to have lost his awareness of the outside world.

“Am I kidding myself?” he murmured, looking around the alley and wrapping his arms around himself, almost trying to hold his body together. “I don’t even know where I am.”

He thought of Neil, most likely on his way back by now. He didn’t have a clinic today - Goran had specifically checked Neil’s schedule, a simple matter of accessing the man’s private profile on the hospital system - so would probably have gone for drinks with one of the hospital’s patrons and one particular patron was most likely.

Goran had known for a while that Neil had been in arrangement of sorts with Guiliana Kasher: patron of Mountain View. She was a wealthy socialite and part-time crime lord with hands in everything from guns to politics and had an eye for intelligent and attractive men. Goran had discovered Neil’s assignations with her when he had started decreasing his meds and becoming more lucid in the times he spent tied to the bed. He had overheard Neil talking to Kasher on the phone, arranging an evening assignation and Neil making the fantastically filthy suggestions he usually made to Goran. When he had found out about Neil’s assignations with the lady, he had expected to feel jealous. Instead he had felt some twisted kind of relief that Neil would be fucking someone else some nights. That had been the beginning of the end.

No more of this. He had made his choice and now it was time to live it, Goran shook the memories from his head and stepped out into the cold light of day.


	2. Thursday Night Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joey has the late shift on Thursdays and the first thing Heath needs is a drink.
> 
> These chapters will become more loosely linked as they go on, such as including flashbacks etc and maybe a bit of time-skipping. I really wanted to commit to a novelesque work but everyday life keeps getting in the way. However, there is a lot more to post up so bear with me.

Joey Shand had the late shift on Autumn Thursdays and liked it that way. You never got the hard drinkers on Thursdays, just the quiet crowd, the grad students who wanted to get away from the University and the regulars who drank late, paid their tab and left little mess. You could spend a pleasant evening playing a few poker hands with the regulars, sharing a joke with the students and flirting with the two office girls who often slunk into a booth on a Thursday evening to share a bottle of chardonnay. There were worse ways to spend a Thursday.   
Joey had worked at the Shangri-la Bar in Greenwich Village for eighteen months now, fitting his odd jobs around the regular hours the bar gave him. It was easy enough work with enough punters, light gambling and flirting women to keep his wallet full and and his ego high. The owner Kazandra was happy enough with his work: he didn't have his fingers in the till, didn't harass their temperamental chef and could punt a mean drunk out of the double doors without breaking a sweat. After a month she had given him a key.  
It was just past midnight now and the last remaining stragglers were finishing up. Joey idly flicked the big screen TV from American Football to a random music video channel and started cleaning down the pumps and removing sparklers; the unwritten code for people to start packing up. He nodded a farewell to the final barfly who left a generous tip on the bar and waited for the door to close before crossing the floor and readying his key for the lock.   
A hand stopped him.  
"Oh excuse me. Are you just closing?"  
Joey looked up in surprise at a pair of tired green eyes in the doorway. The figure of a man stood before him, breathing slightly heavily I'm the cold Autumn air.  
“Yeah I was gonna close.”  
“Ah then could you maybe direct me to an establishment that will serve drinks until a later hour? It has been quite a day and I could do with somewhere ...”  
Joey looked closer with a more suspicious eye, looking for any signs the guy was up for robbing the place. He looked innocent enough: well-spoken, on the slender side with dark brown hair, startlingly green eyes hidden behind glasses and a voice that spoke of years of education. He was also dressed entirely inappropriately for a NY October in only a light summer-weight jacket and chinos and on closer inspection looked tired, withdrawn and had fading and fresh bruises along his neck and jawline. Who the fuck was this guy? One of the grad students on hard times maybe? Joey shrugged.  
“Look man, quite a few places around here close at this time on a Thursday. You ain’t gonna find anywhere until you go further in or to one of the sports bars.” He said amiably but noticed the man’s expression change to one of worry. “Alright look, if you stick to the same type of drink, make it a spirit and keep your mouth shut, I can just clean up around you coz it’s gonna take me at least an hour anyway. How’s that sound?”  
The man’s face lit up in relieved delight and Joey felt his own frisson of excitement at having made him so happy.  
The man - Grad Guy - Joey had soon dubbed him in his head was soon happily perched at the bar with an overly generous measure of bourbon in front of him. He was mostly silent but didn’t take his eyes off Joey as Joey moved around the bar doing his closing down routine: switching out the lights and tv’s, gathering up the abandoned glasses ready for washing and getting out cloths and the mop and bucket ready. Grad Guy tried to offer to help a few times but Joey laughed him off and he didn’t say anything further until Joey came back behind the bar and pulled the rack of glasses out of the washer ready to be put away.  
“Thank you again. Are you sure I cannot help?” he asked again.  
“Seriously man, you are a customer. You don’t need to do anything.” Joey looked up at the man who was now fidgeting with one of the beermats. “Look, you wanna talk or somethin? No one racks up at a bar in Greenwich at half midnight in October, dressed for an early summer walk in Long Island and looking like shit without having a story to tell. You may as well spill it because we got nothing better to do and if your story is a good one, I’ll chuck in the bourbon for free.” he laughed as the man smiled wanly.  
“Well, that’s a deal that’s hard to turn down.” he looked past Joey to the long mirror behind the liquor bottles and touched his face and hair cautiously. “Do I really look like shit?”  
Joey flushed red.  
“Well you don’t look great.” he said jokingly. “You kinda look like you haven’t really gone home in a while.”  
“Ah-ha-ha I suppose that would be a fairly accurate assessment, given that I actually left the place I called home approximately five hours ago and have yet to find anywhere to ‘go’ so to speak.” he knitted his fingers. “I have recently left a rather intense relationship and whilst I planned how I would leave I didn’t fully accept the reality of where I could go. New lives don’t simply pop up from anywhere.”  
“Ain’t that the truth.” agreed Joey who knew only too well about starting over. He didn't want to think about the fight with Benji that had left him without job, almost without a home and money for a month. It was pure chance that he had spent his last five bucks at the Shangri-la and Kazandra had been working behind the bar after her own bar tender disappeared with half the contents of the safe and he had offered to hold the fort while she talked to the cops. She had then advanced him his first wages and after some fast talking he had managed to keep his ratty apartment.  
A sigh shook Joey out of his reveries and he watched Grad guy idly circle the rim of his tumbler with a single finger. He had nice hands - Joey realised - pale, slim and elegant. Maybe he played an instrument.   
Joey started putting away the glasses, with the clatter and clink covering up the moment of discomfort that had sprung up between them. He sneaked a look at Grad Guy who was swirling those fingers around the condensation on the glass now, looking almost wistful and not saying anything further. Joey couldn't take it anymore, his curiosity got the better of him.  
“So did she chuck you out or did you just up sticks?”   
Grad Guy suddenly became still, with a sudden light flush painting his cheeks and a pained expression. He seemed to shrink a few inches.  
“Ah-ha, my partner was male …” he waited for Joey’s reaction which was to shrug it off and inwardly kick himself for making a dumbass assumption. “ … and I chose to leave. We had become increasingly incompatible over the last few months and the situation was becoming intolerable.” Grad Guy met his gaze and obviously noticed Joey’s slight look at his neck and the discolouration there. He twitched up his collar to shield it from view. “Yes that kind of intolerable.” he said uncomfortably.  
“That’s rough.”  
“I suppose.” admitted Grad Guy, cupping the heavy-bottomed tumbler as if it was the only thing keeping him there. He seemed so hunched and withdrawn, Joey wondered if he was actually ill. “Now I just have to work out where I go from here. As you can see, I am not exactly dressed for high society and nowhere is open. However the single most important thing I did need one I arrived in Manhattan was a drink.” he gave another smile - this one more gentle and it made his features soften. “I suppose I may have to go to somewhere like the YMCA for a little while just while I gather myself. Whilst I have money and access to money I am reluctant to spend it on a hotel for the night. Especially in New York - it is rather expensive here, isn’t it?”  
Joey laughed again. This guy spoke like he had never been in the outside world before.  
“You can say that again. But didn’t you know where you were?”  
“Ah this is actually my first time in the city. I walked down from - I believe - Queen’s to here. I have never been to Manhattan before. Crossing the bridge was an amazing - if a cold - experience."  
Joey looked again at Grad Guy. He was serious. How could you live in Queens but never have seen Manhattan? And why would you walk from Queens to Greenwich anyway? That was at least three hours and across the Brooklyn bridge in ridiculously cold weather was insane. He studied the guy's exhausted expression and the bruises again, noticing also that where he was holding the glass, fresh red lines showed on his wrists obviously disappearing into his sleeves and up his arms. None of this shit made sense. What the hell had happened to this guy?  
Joey felt a sense of sympathy well up in him. He had been that guy. Hell no. He had been that kid. Alone in New York after hitching a lift there and totally fucked, having to fend for himself with only his wits and luck to help him. Joey didn't like thinking of that scared brat who had slept in alleyways and resorted to petty crime just to stay alive. He could help this guy, not in many ways but at least he could stop him from hitting rock bottom.  
“Look man, want me to show you where the Y is? I can at least help you there and you can come back here tomorrow night if you want?"  
Grad guy looked absurdly grateful and Joey reached over to the hooks for his coat. He then hit on an idea. Rummaging through the various jackets, scarves, umbrellas and aprons, he eventually extracted a second coat - an older style trench coat - off the rack and proffered it to the man.  
"Now you have to come back tomorrow coz you gotta return this." He chuckled, holding up the tan-coloured coat. The guy tried to refuse but when Joey had explained that it had hung on the rack for months and no one had ever claimed it, he relented and pulled it on with an almost exaggerated level of care, almost tentative in his actions. Finally he stood ready: the coat was clearly a size too big for his slender frame but after tying the belt, he could have easily passed for hipster trying to make a statement.  
"I'm Joey. Joey Shand." Joey proffered "You gonna tell me your name?" He asked as he locked the door and pulled down the final shutter.  
"Ah yes of course. It's Heath, Heath Chopin."

"So why the Village of all places?" Queried Joey as they walked towards Bleeker. Grad guy - Heath - looked around the dark streets towards Washington Square Garden.  
“New York University. I already have a Bachelors and wanted to pursue an MA at some point so I thought I would start by visiting the admissions offices for either the Law School or the Gallatin School.” Heath took a long, drawn-out breath and his pace slowed a little. “However, I do not know the city, do not have a cell phone and appeared to have grossly underestimated the time it would take me to get there. I had to work with the routes from memory and of course, choosing to walk probably wasn’t the best idea.”  
Joey lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew lazy smoke rings into the clear night sky before plunging his hands into his own jacket: a beaten up old bikers jacket Joey had picked up from the Thrift store a few months ago that still had plenty of wear left in it. It had good inner pockets for his smokes and light and helped enhance his 'don't fuck with me' vibe which was necessary for some parts of Hell Kitchen at night. Now all he needed was the bike to go with it.  
“Nope, pretty dumb if you ask me.” he grinned. “You really are a weird guy, you know?”  
Heath laughed and it was surprisingly refreshing to hear the man’s genuine laughter after the hollow, fake ‘aha-ha-ha’. Or at least it would have been if Heath hadn’t then gone a sickening shade of grey-white, taken a shuddering breath and wrapped his arms around his abdomen.  
“Holy fuck! Heath, what’s the matter? Are you sick or something, do you need the emergency room?”  
If anything Heath went from from grey to sickly green and he shook his head vehemently, struggling to breathe. He was sweating now despite the cold; that chocolate hair was clumping with dampness around his neck and Heath’s hands were shaking.  
“No hospital." He gasped out. "Absolutely not. I’ll be fine, just an old condition. The pain will pass, it always does.” he heaved another breath, sucked in a deeper one, straightened up and carried on walking, albeit even slower than before. His face was still pallid and wan. Joey looked suspicious.  
“You want me to call a cab? Or we take the subway?” he asked. “You really look like shit now.”  
Heath still shook his and head and carried on walking at his plodding place.  
“I really am sorry to inconvenience you like this. I couldn’t possibly accept a cab ride.”   
Joey ignored him and looked about the empty streets trying to spot the familiar streak of yellow he could hail. Normally there was at least a few hanging around this area of the city. He scanned the road frantically trying to find a cab, any cab. Fucks sake, where were they all tonight?  
Finally he spotted one coming round the corner and held out his arm into the road. Glaring yellow headlights threw malevolent shadows onto the sidewalk.  
“Look I'll get this. You can owe me.” He said. “Heath?”  
But Heath was lying on the sidewalk a foot away from him, face down and with a dark red stain rapidly crawling across his borrowed trenchcoat.


	3. Past and Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goran flashes back to his time with Jenison and Joey does his good little boy scout thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually still very much invested in this little story, becoming increasingly fond of these guys. There's more to come

_ Goran cannot move again. He is bound to the chair they have used to wheel him between his cell and this office. This is not unusual as he is usually strapped to the chair for travelling through the corridors of the facility; it is seen as kinder than a strait jacket, not to mention cheaper than one too. Goran is used to it by now; the firm brown leather straps encasing his wrists, waist and ankles are somewhat a source of comfort to him now, keeping him grounded. _

_ Although this is the first time he has been strapped to the chair naked with only a thin white sheet covering his dignity. _

_ Doctor Neil Jenison stands before him, wearing his white coat and sardonic smile. Goran used to only meet with Dr Jenison once a week for an interview where Goran would have the EEG sensors placed on his head and Jenison would ask him various questions and monitor his reaction. That was some months ago. Now Jenison sees him almost every other day and the EEG sensors gather dust in the corner of the room. _

_ “You notice that I have had you undressed for this session.” came Jenison’s mellow, mocking voice. “I wish to study that certain aspect of your personality further.” _

_ Goran remains silent. However, it is not just because his head is swimming with the latest round of tranquillisers which make him feel punch drunk and make his stomach roll with nausea. It is part of their game: Jenison takes him as far as he can until Goran finally gives in to his still-simmering-below-the-surface rage and unleashes this ‘certain aspect’. The first time it happened, it had taken three orderlies and a barbiturate cocktail syringe plunged into his backside to bring him under control. Goran remembered it vividly: as he had been held down and as the coolness flooded into his veins he had seen the thrill on Jenison's face … not to mention the obvious arousal in his slacks. _

_ It starts off mundane. They talk of therapy. Again. They talk of Goran’s day to day activities in the rec-room which mainly involves playing chess against himself, doing crossword puzzles and endless reading. Again. They talk about his parents divorce and his father's death. Again. They talk of his dull time at the orphanage. Again. Jenison then throws his latest curveball. _

_ “So, let’s talk about that day, Goran. The day you can home to your little house.” his grey eyes bore into Goran’s own green. “What did you find?” _

_ “You know this, Dr Jenison.” Goran responds. His voice sounds raspy, brittle and terse. “I have told you before. Two days ago in fact.” _

_ “Ah-ha but I now wish for you to tell me differently. Why were you so consumed with rage about your sister’s kidnapping?” Goran’s fingernails press into the plastic faux leather of the wheelchair arms and he stares daggers at Jenison who merely grins. “Of course any good brother would be worried but you were more than that, Goran. Weren’t you?” _

_ Goran realises with a sudden start where this is going. Jenison has already worked it out long ago and has just been waiting. Of course he knows Goran's greatest secret. He worked it out several sessions ago. Jenison is not stupid after all; he would have the pictures, the backgrounds and the information. He could have easily pieced it together. He has just been waiting. Waiting to use this delicious nugget of information to push Goran even further than before. Jenison is now closing the distance between them looking eager, almost hungry. Goran notices he has already unzipped himself and his aroused state is obvious, tenting his shorts beneath and forming a damp darker patch across the blue cotton. With one move, Jenison whisks the sheet from his lap, exposing his whole body to the open air. _

_ “You want to know why I think you lost your mind?” he reaches for Goran’s throat with one hand and his flaccid cock with the other. Goran cannot prevent him and he isn't really sure he wants to. He feels himself firm within Jenison's grip. He cannot help it: Jenison has worked really quite hard to make sure Goran dances along the line of pleasure and pain and to Goran’s shame, it is beginning to work. “I think you were more than just the good big brother.” one hand around him pumping and one around his throat squeezing with lips at his ear whispering. “I think you were in love with her.” Goran is fully hard now and an angry sob forces its way through his constricted windpipe. Jenison’s hand is stroking him firmly and Goran sees that Jenison is moving his own hips, rubbing against the seams of his shorts, his own arousal oozing in anticipation. Goran feels his vision going fuzzy at the edges. “More than that, I think you were fucking her. Dear little good boy Goran Chopin - star student and would be valedictorian - was secretly nailing his sister, that sweet little Katerina Chopin.” _

_ Goran cannot hold it. He screams with rage and thrashes at his leather bounds making the chair shake and rattle. His vision whites out as he comes hard with Jenison’s chuckle ringing in his ears and warm wet spatter across his chest. His own? Or Jenison's? He cannot tell. He doesn't care. _

* * *

Heath opened his eyes expecting to see the bright white ceiling of Neil’s apartment with it’s expensive embedded lighting strips glaring down at him as he had done many times in the last few months. Instead, he saw an old ceiling fan on its lowest setting spinning lazily above him, creating flickering shadows from the light cast by the yellowy shade hanging below it.

“If this is hell.” he murmured slowly “Then it is very unremarkable.”

“Well excuse me for keeping the place so plain. Do you know how much rents are around here now?” came a voice with a harsh yet not unpleasant Brooklyn accent. “Good to see you aren't dead yet.”

It was the man from the bar. Joey. A tall man with long hair, a shade of dark copper red rarely seen naturally and when accompanied by rich olive skin and pair of a rich copper-coloured eyes. Now Heath could examine the man fully, he realised that Joey was striking to look at and really quite handsome. Heath could not help but stare.

Joey waved his cigarette in a gesture.

“You collapsed on Bleeker before we got anywhere.” he explained. “You were still managing to scream about not going to the hospital and I didn’t want to just dump you at the Y when you were bleeding so I told everyone we passed that you were drunk and had fallen on glass. I bought you back here and tried to sort you out myself. Had to strip you down though to get at you so your clothes are pretty much fucked I reckon.” he jerked his thumb to a pile of bloodstained clothing by the door. “I saved your wallet and stuff though.” he then pointed to a small battered bistro table by the window where Heath could just see the small black document wallet he had kept tucked in his waistband. In there was all he needed to be Heathcliff Chopin: the birth certificate, the social security card, the passport and driver’s licence amongst others. Everything he needed to leave Goran in the past and it had cost him most of the money he had managed to gather together and some seriously questionable dark web transactions but his entire new life was there in that pouch.

And he had this strange man to thank for saving it.

“Joey …” he said, trying to push himself into a sitting position. Joey leapt forward and pushed him back down.

“Easy! Don’t you dare fuck up my hard work.” Heath lifted the sheet to see an enormous dressing pad taped firmly across his abdomen. The swollen itchiness beneath also suggested renewed stitches. Heath looked at Joey quizzically and Joey grinned. “I watched a Youtube vid about injuries and went down CVS and got some stuff. The two stitches aren’t great but they should hold the torn bit, luckily you were still out of it when I did it, especially the whole cleaning out bit. It was all gross." He pulled a disgusted expression. "That is one hell of an injury. You also hit your head when you fell so I taped that up too and the stuff on your wrists...”

Heath stared at the clean white dressings encircling his wrists and tentatively touched his forehead to feel the cotton padding of another dressing. He then looked at Joey as if he had grown an extra head.

“Why are you doing this?”asked Heath finally. “Why would you take a man you barely know back to your home and treat him? You don’t strike me as the good samaritan type."

Joey shrugged.

"Dunno. You just seemed so lost and I am a bit of a sucker for lost and broken things." He grinned. "Besides I know what it's like to hit rock bottom and having something there is just good, ya know?" He dropped his cigarette into an open beer can. "Now I was gonna make something for dinner and got two packs of ramen with our names on ready to do. You in?"

Heath laughed.


	4. House Pets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we learn exactly what kind of apartment Heath has woken up in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a couple of short ones this time around as the formatting on my computer file got a bit screwed so I am sorting it all out.

A few days into his recovery and Heath got to know his surroundings more as he became more able to move around. Joey lived on the top floor of an older tenement block in Hell's Kitchen. His apartment was little more than a larger studio with small areas designated for sitting, cooking and sleeping with a bathroom tucked behind a pocket door, but it was warm, dry and homely enough. The furniture was a glorious mismatch of obvious hand-me-downs, thrift store finds and secondhand acquisitions all clearly selected for their function and not their appearance. To Heath's faint surprise there was actually very little in the apartment to show Joey lived there: no pictures on the walls beyond a faded Tarantino film poster which may have even belonged to a former tenant; no ornaments, photographs or knick knacks showing a life, a history or even a personality. Even the DVDs of random movies and boxsets and the few trashy thriller books that were shoved into drawers or languished in a stack under the TV where an old laptop balanced on top of them showed very little about their owner. It reminded Heath of a budget hotel room: no clues about it's surprisingly kind occupant. 

Once Heath had managed to climb out of the large bed and move around the apartment beyond a simple stagger to the bathroom, he found that he could stand to make coffee and attempt to cook a little. Joey had basic skills in cooking which began mainly with ramen, went halfway towards microwave dinners and ended in grilled cheese so he was only too happy for Heath to offer to cook and in fact became wildly enthusiastic when Heath admitted that he had a little skill in cooking.

The only issue was that Joey had very little in the way of fresh food and equipment to cook it with beyond a single pan and a baking sheet. He explained that he usually ate his biggest meals at the bar courtesy of the chef there and otherwise ordered in big stuff. He rarely needed to fill the refrigerator beyond beer, uneaten leftovers and maybe a few eggs and whenever he did, it would quickly turn into unidentifiable sludge. He even had the grace to look embarrassed by his living situation which made Heath long to help and he had offered to make them both breakfast.

The following day, they sat at the bistro table eating Heath’s first prepared meal in the apartment: scrambled eggs on toast. Heath had prepared the dish after testing the freshness of the box of eggs and milk he had found in the refrigerator. Joey had emerged from the bathroom, following the smell and fallen upon them, ravenous and before Heath was even halfway through his own, he had put down his mismatched cutlery on an empty plate.

“Fuck that was good.” had been the gracious compliment as Heath cleared the table.

Joey then told him that he had accepted a painting and decorating gig downtown and would be gone most of the day, then would have his early evening shift at the bar so probably wouldn't be back until about nine or so.

"I understand." Said Heath coolly, trying to mask his fear about having to go out into this daunting, unknown city again. "I shall collect my things. Thank you for lending me clothes - I will return them as soon as I find somewhere."

Joey - who had been rummaging in the cupboards suddenly realised what Heath had said. Heath was stood up now, looking distinctly awkward next to the table, holding the two plates and cutlery and looking like he wanted to pack everything away and make a run for it. He reminded Joey of a raccoon him and his brother had cornered in their yard when he had been younger. That same fearful expression and that complete conflict between fight or flight. Joey couldn’t help but wonder once again what kind of hell Heath had left behind him.

"Look you can stay here if you want." Joey said, hurriedly loading a bag of chips and a couple of candy bars into a battered rucksack. He reached down by the door and searched out a pair of workman's boots that had seen better days and started pulling them on. It was Heath's turn to look surprised.

"But, leaving a virtual stranger in your home? Are you mad?"

"Like I have shit worth stealing." Joey responded with a grin and gestured to the apartment like a showman displaying his acts. "Seriously, there's nothing here. You wanna take my TV feel free but it took me three hours to get it up the stairs with help so you won't exactly get far. The laptop has about five keys missing and makes weird buzzing noises and the furniture ain't exactly gonna sell." He picked at a hole on the sofa appearing to be conflicted by embarrassment and pride over his home. "Look, you seem house-trained, you’re still pretty weak and ya got nowhere else so feel free to just recover here." He rummaged in the pocket of his too tight jeans and drew out a single key attached to a plastic key-ring that advertised the Shangri-La bar. "Look here, have my spare key. If you wanna up sticks and go I understand, but just lock up if you do and shove the key under the door or drop it in the mailbox downstairs.” he cast an eye at his cell phone that buzzed in his hand. “Fuck, is it already nine? I'm gonna have to take the subway, sorry Heath but maybe see you later. I wrote down my cell for you too if you needed it."

Joey then reached over, drained his coffee mug, shoved it into the overflowing sink and headed for the door, grabbing a water bottle the TV stand as he did so. He waved a hazardous goodbye to Heath and ran out the door, clattering down the apartment stairs like a hurricane leaving Heath once again alone in an empty apartment standing by a table with a small stack of tableware clutched like a life buoy in his hands.

At first he wasn't quite sure of what to do with himself. Throughout his time at Neil's he hadn't been lucid quite a lot of the time - having his medications on a regular schedule and constantly altered to Neil's latest idea or 'breakthrough' kept him either torpid, dizzy or lethargic and sometimes all three once when Neil was feeling creative. However, there had always been his therapy notes to read, his physio exercises to do (he still should carry on with those he realised, if he was going to keep Joey’s good work from being ruined) and usually recovery from whatever he had been subjected to the previous days and nights. Neil also always left him books he expected Goran to read. Everything from Nietzsche to the Three Kingdoms had appeared on that glass topped coffee table and Goran would be expected to read them and critique them ready for them to discuss over dinner. Goran hadn't just been Neil's experiment but his own personal pet, only the kind of pet that could provide scintillating dinner conversation.

Now he had a fully clear head, almost healed injuries, no Neil and total freedom. He could do literally anything. The thought was intoxicating and had him staggering to the sink feeling like he was going to vomit in anxiety. After several minutes of staring at the traces of egg and toast crumbs on the plate in front of him and choking down his rising gorge, Heath was seized by action. He rolled up his sleeves, gathered up the plate and his own empty coffee mug and went to the cluttered kitchen area, realising that one way to repay Joey for his kindness would be at least to clean the kitchen and make everything neat. He looked into the sink, grimacing a little at the dirty water which had Joey’s coffee mug still bobbing around in it. He then looked in the cupboards for any form of cleaning fluid but finding nothing but a fossilized dish brush and a mostly-empty bottle of dish-soap that appeared to be trying to weld itself to the cupboard.

Well, that was the push Heath needed. He would have to leave the apartment at some point and this was a prime time to test the credit and debit cards he had managed to subtly acquire for his new identity before leaving Neil. If Heath’s luck held, he would have suitable funds for a while and a financial history steadily building in the background. He had spent months and many dollars crafting this identity, it’s history and it’s life and he had to be absolutely sure it was going to work for him. Where better to start than with a simple shopping trip? There must be a hardware store near here.  _ And a market _ thought Heath as he looked in the refrigerator and icebox and noting the three cans of Budweiser and half of the box of eggs. In fact there were a few things he could do here to repay Joey for his kindness. Mentally he cast an eye across the worn apartment and made a list.


	5. Make Yourself At Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Heath makes himself at home and Joey discovers a reason for him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't lost anyone who did start reading this as I know it's more of a series of vignettes within a universe as opposed to tightly connected chapters but this chapter does actually follow on from the last.  
Sorry it's still quite short but I am onto the next one.

Joey sloped up the stairs that evening feeling heavy with tiredness. The day gig had been a back-breaking session of non-stop painting at a fancy hotel that was having a refit - he never wanted to see the colour 'teal dreams' again - and his arms ached like crazy. This, then followed by a four hour stint on his feet at the Shangri-la where he seemed to be shafted with every possible barrel and pipe change and the chef had fucked off early meaning he didn’t manage to get his usual food beforehand meant he was not only aching but hungry too. This was then followed by the walk back to his apartment in the increasingly cold weather had completely finished him off for the evening. All he wanted now was a kick back on his sofa, order a pizza the size of a trash can lid and fall asleep in front of some shitty film or bad porn. He didn't even have the energy to swing by a bar and charm some lucky lady into sharing a bed for the night. Still, some company would have been nice.

And it's not like Heath would still be there anyway. People walked out on Joey. They always did. From his mother to his father to his step mother to his brother to even that fucktard Benji. They all fucked off out of his life, leaving him alone. He had spent so much of his life fending for himself that he had taken it for granted that he would always be alone. This was why Joey preferred his relationships strictly short-term and transactional in nature. Easy girls, women - sometimes men - who appreciated a simple night of fun and no strings and had no issue with him heading out in the morning with barely a 'see ya babe'.

Joey stamped up the flights of stairs to his apartment hoping the actions would warm him up. Fuck he was cold. His leather jacket was warm-ish but couldn’t fully withstand the onslaught of a full New York winter and he really needed to think about getting something warmer and more padded. He reached his door and fumbled for his key with numb fingers, maybe he actually needed a proper pair of gloves too. The keys slipped from his cold fingers and clattered to the floor. The dented and scratched keyring of the Millennium Falcon - the only thing he had remaining from his childhood, a gift from his brother John - glinted up at him, he felt a pang in his heart at the sight. Fuck John - he left too after the shit with Mom, thought Joey. Everyone left eventually. It was just how things were for Joey Shand. He was okay with that.

He finally opened the door and was hit by not just a wave of warmth but a wave of scent. It was spicy and flavoursome with a promise of a myriad of flavours. There was a faint sound of music coming from his crappy old radio and an even fainter sound of masculine humming. Convinced he had somehow opened the door to the wrong apartment, Joey looked around as he stepped inside and was convinced he was definitely in the wrong apartment. The apartment itself was actually tidy: all his strewn clothes were off the floor and sofa and somewhere else not immediately obvious. The discarded detritus of a hundred temp jobs had been cleared away and the kitchen appeared to be four shades lighter. A plant even sat on the countertop. A living plant. 

Either this was the world's most bizarre burglary or …

"Ah, welcome home. I hoped I would get the time right, luckily it’s still hot." Heath was stood near the little table, removing tinfoil from a large stoneware baking dish Joey hadn't even realised he owned with a pair of oven mitts that he was pretty sure had appeared by magic. A haze of steam emerged from the dish and released more of the delicious scent into the air. Joey's mouth involuntarily watered and his stomach growled like a starving dog. "I made burritos."

Joey was still convinced he was still in the wrong place. What the fuck? He felt his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

"Well shit … you didn't. I mean you didn't have to." He finally stammered as Heath bought over cutlery, condiments plates and - holy fuck - a salad bowl. No wait. A salad bowl filled with actual salad. Joey couldn't remember the last time something green had entered this apartment, let alone a bowl full of it, not to mention the plant.

"Do you not like Mexican food?" Said Heath suddenly looking withdrawn again. He froze in place and fidgeted with a pair of cooking tongs that Joey knew he didn't have in the apartment before this moment. "I should have asked. I am sorry- I should - " 

At the sudden distressing thought of losing the delicious food that was so close to being in his mouth and belly, Joey nearly lunged for the dish and instead seized Heath’s wrist. Heath suddenly looked immediately on guard, hard and cold, staring at Joey’s hand. Joey looked down and saw his fingers on Heath’s skin. With a pang he saw the red marks of fading scars and yellowing bruises that were still healing. He felt sick at the sight and Heath’s expression became more forgiving. Joey immediately released Heath’s wrist and gestured to the dishes.

"No! I’m sorry! The food … it’s amazing. I love Mexican! I love it. This. Just not used to being cooked for like this. Like home cooking stuff. It's weird. You didn't have to." 

It was true. He wasn't used to this. Really not used to this. Joey had been alone for much of his life and the idea of someone racking up, staying, cleaning and cooking whilst expecting nothing in return was just plain weird. There would be a catch at some point. There had to be. Things this good didn't simply appear from thin air, at least not to Joey. 

Heath’s cold exterior suddenly washed away like the tide and he smiled. It was warm. He seemed to have instantly forgiven Joey for snatching his wrist. In fact he looked almost beatific at the praise.

"You didn't have to help me three days ago but you did. Think of it as services in kind." He responded, reaching for the spatula and tongs. He shovelled out two of the steaming burritos onto Joey's plate and the smell of toasted cheese had Joey drooling again and his eager stomach clench in desire. Heath then sprinkled some green stuff over the plate which released a clean spicy smell into the air and made Joey realise the random houseplant on his countertop was actually fresh cilantro. Heath then pushed over pots of sour cream, salsa and guacamole before loading up his own plate. "I also cleaned up for you a bit, I hope you don’t mind that I had to touch your stuff." he added even blushing a little.

Joey could only shrug and nod as his hunger got the better of him and he attacked his meal with gusto and enthusiasm. It was better than good, it was amazing: warmly spiced, deeply flavoured and packed absolutely full. Joey hadn't had a home cooked meal since he had slept with that waitress from the Italian place off Christopher Street and that had been a simple stew thing that had tasted of tomato and garlic and not a lot else. Not like this.

"Fuck it's so good." He mumbled around his mouthful, hoping sincerely that the tears in his eyes could just be down the chilli powder in the mix. Heath looked pleased at the praise..

"I’m glad you think so. I haven't cooked for a while and it took me a while to find a good market but after a while I started to enjoy myself."

That much was true. Heath at first had been like a hostage having his blindfold removed as he walked the streets of Hell's Kitchen looking at first for an ATM and then for the shops he needed. Everything in this city seemed to be over-exposed in a kaleidoscope of the senses: the noise, the smell, the overwhelming city-ness of it all. Aside from his long trek over to the city itself, he hadn’t been in a metropolitan area for years and it was overwhelming. However, it wasn't unpleasant. In fact the more he walked around, the happier he had become. He was Heathcliff Chopin and Heath could do what he liked. His cards hadn't been refused at either of the two shops he had entered and the ATM machine had happily dispensed him cash with no issues. Heath had also been happy to see that the amount in his account was exactly the amount he had deposited there over time with no changes. When he had attempted to buy beer, his ID had been accepted without issue. And when he had arrived back at the apartment with his wound aching at the distance he had walked and groceries he carried, he felt a sense of peace in this new identity.

Upon returning, he had donned his new apron and rubber gloves and attacked the kitchen with gusto, persuading the surfaces to give up their years of ingrained dirt and staining. It had been a novel kind of therapy for him. For the months he had lived with Neil, a lot of food had been delivered to the apartment and a nameless cleaner had let themselves in and cleaned three days a week. She had refused to speak to Goran, simply coming in, doing her job in total silence then leaving. Half the time Goran was barely aware of her presence thanks to his medication and/or his recovery leaving him immobile on the enormous bed or the sofa but the few times he had attempted conversation, she had simply shook her head and moved away from him like he carried an infectious disease. Although he soon realised that some of her fear of him may have less to do with his demeanor and more to do with the fact that Goran was sure she had seen him tied to the bed or immobile in leather strapping at least a few times in the aftermath of one of Neil’s sessions. When one day, Goran had attempted to clean and tidy up himself, Neil had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to do that and any attempt to do so would be a transgression. Goran hadn't thought to challenge this threat as punishment for transgressions in Neil's book tended to veer towards the violently sexual in nature and whilst he wanted the sessions, he did not want the painful recovery..

Still, Heath had managed to get Joey’s apartment serviceable and doing burritos seemed the easiest and most fulfilling option and - judging by Joey's rapt expression and fully cleared plate - he had been right.

"That was amazing." Joey gushed again, draining the bottle of beer Heath had put out on the table. "How the hell did you learn to cook like that?"

Heath shrugged. He was still very much unwilling to reveal any details of his previous life. Of his time with Katerina.

"Another life. I had to learn, otherwise we would have never eaten anything beyond instant pasta. I have always enjoyed doing it though."

There was a sudden long silence before Joey finally cracked.

"You … You thought about what you are gonna do next then?" He asked, fiddling with his cutlery.

Heath flushed. He had been so excited about the chance for normalcy and domestic pleasures he had clean forgotten he was essentially gate-crashing this man's life and apartment. There was no way Joey would let him trespass for much longer now.

"Ah-haha … no I am afraid. I suppose I should look into graduate schools or else look for a job. I have funds but it will take time to find a suitable place. Of course I should get out of your place at least. Let you have your bed back too, you were too generous to offer it." He looked as embarrassed as Joey who reached behind him to crack a window and light up a cigarette for the sake of something to do to break the awkward silence. He seemed to be studying Heath and there was a silence between them spoke of so much more.

"Look man, if you wanna stay here for a bit or longer, you can." Joey gestured with his cigarette. Heath went to immediately refuse but he held up his hand. "Besides, you cleaned up all the crap and made all this, so you ain't exactly a bad roomie to have around. If you don't have a problem with it then I don't either. We can take turns on the bed if ya like or I don't give a fuck about sharing - it's queen sized. You might as well stay."

Heath exhaled a breath he didn't even know he had been holding.

"If you are sure."

Joey’s face broke into the warmest smile that Heath had ever seen and it made his gut twist.

“More than sure.”


	6. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Joey inadvertently trades a hook-up for a confession and Heath realises that it's time to tell the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still going. I know this isn't as popular as some of my other bits but I still have a great affection for this little AU world. There's more to come as well.

Joey whistled at the sight of the enormous box of beautifully shaped and decorated pastries on the counter that was about to be transferred into a paper bag by the blushing and flustered waitress.

"You sure the Boss Man says it's okay to have these?" He asked incredulously, there were easily fifty dollars worth of baking on the counter. The waitress - a flighty petite little thing called Stacey - giggled and flicked her heavily-highlighted hair over her shoulder. She had been eyeing him all day, appearing regularly throughout her shift to offer him water, remind him of the time, ask questions about what he was doing and make sure she happened to be passing when he took his top off.

"Yeah.” she grinned and leaned over the counter. “He said you saved him on serious dollars by fixin' the wiring so quick so close to Thanksgiving and the Health Inspector’s visit due so he threw in one of these party boxes for ya as a thanks." She chirruped happily and held out the bag. "And the cell number on the top is an extra thing from me if you need anything." She smiled at him through lowered lashes and thrust out her ample chest.

Joey thanked her with a wink and a suggestive comment before exiting the bakery with a hum of satisfaction. Maybe he would call her later. He could use a hookup.

* * *

Heath was now an official resident of Apartment 508. Two weeks ago he had collected various bits of paperwork from a postal box across the city and the next day, enrollment and scholarship forms for NYU had appeared in Joey's mailbox along with a job application for an admin assistant at the Catholic church. Joey had been amazed at Heath's efficiency in establishing himself in the city, not to mention overawed by the delicious meals that Heath managed to pull together each evening from seemingly nothing. Joey had never eaten so well and he swore he wasn’t far away from needing to go up a size in pants. His apartment now boasted a small collection of Tupperware and Joey was getting used to the idea of actually having a homemade lunch ready for him on the counter in the mornings. It made Joey wonder how he had actually existed without Heath in his life and he couldn't decide whether he was comfortable with it or not.

It made him even more curious to know how Heath had actually ended up in his life.

He hadn't pried very deeply into Heath's affairs and Heath had offered very little in that regard. There were occasional references to his recent previous relationship - and it had obviously been a seriously fucked up one given the amount of faded and still-healing wounds on the man - but the majority of his scant reminiscences were focused around his much younger years with his sister. Joey also knew from treating Heath's wounds and changing the dressings, that under those clothes was a litany of healing bruises, scars and abrasions that were in various stages of healing indicating that whatever he had been through, it had happened over some time. And whatever had happened to Heath - and the 'relationship' he had left - it had been serious.

Joey climbed the stairs up to the apartment, cradling the bag of pastries in his arms and feeling tiredness pull at him insistently. He had been getting more and more of these temporary jobs these days thanks to being the only temp worker in New York who seemed to actually show up on time and actually do any fucking work. This, coupled with his bar shifts meant he hadn't really been at the apartment much, apart from stumbling in late and crashing out on the bed and rising early to disappear out the door again. If it hadn't been for the warm heap of Heath lying in his bed when he climbed in - by tacit agreement they were sharing the queen sized bed now - and the selection of Tupperware in the fridge and on the table in the morning, Joey would swear he still lived alone. Luckily, Kazandra had finally given him a few days off and today was the first time in a long time he would be home at a reasonable hour.

He wondered idly about the waitress from today. She really had been interested and she was pretty hot. He wondered why he hadn’t taken her up on it. It would have taken very little to lean over the counter with a flirty comment and he could have been escorting her back to her place right now for a friendly tumble between the sheets but something had stopped him. In fact this something seemed to be stopping him more often these days. He used to have regular hookups with whatever chick would cast a sideways glance at him, now he seemed to be not as bothered. Maybe it was just that he was losing interest. Maybe it was Heath in his apartment and he could no longer bring girls back so didn’t really want to stay out.

Or just maybe, he actually wanted to come home now.

The thought made his belly flutter.

He opened the apartment door with cold fingers and was immediately struck by the scene: the little studio apartment was warm and lit by lamplight. They had a floor lamp now: an old but serviceable thing Heath had dug up from the New York equivalent of a yard sale and Joey had had to admit it made his rather cold and lifeless apartment feel a good deal warmer and more homely. It cast its pale, golden yellow glow across the apartment revealing it to be spotless as usual: everything folded, cleaned and put away in its place. The faint smell of cooking lingered in the air and there was a chopping board on the tiny countertop leaden with fresh vegetables waiting to be prepared and the battered dutch oven - another Heath junk shop find - sat out on the stove ready for cooking to start. Everything looked ready for the evening, however the little kitchen area stood silent and empty. 

"Heath?" He called, putting the pastry box on the table. They would be perfect to share later.

A faint moan and scuffling from the bed immediately told him Heath’s location. Not unusual as Heath had mentioned he occasionally napped in the early evenings as he often ran out of energy through the strains of the day on an overworked and recovering body and he needed to rest. However those strained noises weren't the sound of normal sleep movements. They sounded distressed and in pain.

Curious and more than a little worried now, Joey crossed the apartment to the bed and saw Heath writhing there, obviously gripped in the throes of a dream. Or nightmare. His normally placid face was twisted into an expression of pure misery and fury. His fists were clenched into the bedding, nails digging deep as his legs thrashed around, twisting into the sheets. He was gasping and moaning again with his head flung back on the pillow, hair clumped with sweat, panting hard. His shirt was sticking to his torso, dark with moisture. He was murmuring frantically.

“Please. Oh please. Come back. Come back!” the sudden ramping up of his voice to a plaintive cry hit Joey like a knife to the gut. “Don’t!” came the screamed sob. “Katerina!”

Desperate to do something to break the spell, Joey reached out a hand and grasped his shoulder. Heath twisted at the sudden touch and moaned further, trying to get away, shielding his face. Losing his balance, Joey fell forward and Heath thrashed madly beneath him. They lunged and rolled together across the bed with Heath arching against him with a plaintive but furious cry, using a strength that was belied by his deceptively fragile-looking frame and - even more surprisingly - Joey could feel a growing erection beneath Heath’s loose cotton lounge pants. Self-consciously, Joey pushed his body up. At the loss of the weight against him, Heath plunged his hands up towards his face and hair, beginning to claw at them and quickly Joey grabbed Heath’s wrists tightly to hold him back.

“Heath no!”

The man shot bolt upright nearly dislodging them both. He was panting fiercely and staring blindly into the twilight darkness. He didn’t seem to see Joey at all, he only stared at his wrists that were now gently cradled in Joey’s own hands. He could feel the quick thrumming of Heath's pulse like the fluttering of a butterfly.

“Neil?” Heath asked hoarsely and Joey saw the film of tears in his eyes.

“No. S’Joey.” he didn’t know what else to say. He wondered about reassuring him but Heath spoke first.

“Joey?” his voice was harsh and crackly from his shouting. 

“Remember? Joey from the bar. You live here now. With me. You’re safe.” It seemed like the right thing to say

Suddenly Heath seemed to reach full clarity with that phrase and he relaxed in Joey’s grip. Joey loosened his hold, releasing those wrists fully and listened to Heath’s breathing returning to normal. The man seemed so vulnerable at that moment, almost like he had shrunk. Wet green eyes stared back at him with an intensity that was unnerving.

"You were dreaming, man." Said Joey finally, sitting on the end of the bed to give him some space. Heath shifted his knees up and wrapped his arms around them looking more like a child than a man. For a tall man he could certainly make himself very small.

"What did I do? What did I say?" He asked softly.

Joey looked uncomfortable. He didn't really want to feed Heath's nightmares back to him. 

"You didn’t do anything, just thrashed and shouted … but you spoke about … Katerina. Guessing she is your sister."

Heath's expression now mirrored his own although it was now pale and drawn..

"Ah, yes. Well she ... was my sister." He sighed and looked past Joey towards the windows, seeing the approaching darkness, as if he was deciding something. Joey waited expectantly: his mind started spinning possible stories about Heath: his sister, his abusive relationship with Neil and his life. 

Heath finally obliged him.

"I suppose that this is a good moment as any to tell you exactly how I came to end up at your bar with nothing. Then I shall let you decide whether you want to keep this poor excuse of a man living under your roof."


	7. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Joey finds out exactly what Goran went through, those months ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite a distraction by the amazing Watchmaker series by Natasha Pulley - I am still committed to this fiction. This is not exactly a happy chapter for obvious reasons but things will start picking up a bit. I have at least another six chapters of these planned, if people are still invested in it.

So they sat. Sitting knee to knee at the battered bistro table overlooking the darkening street and yellowing street lights below. The magnificent box of pastries in their pink and white candy stripe box lay open yet was completely untouched and two coffee mugs were cooling rapidly. Joey wondered if he should have served something harder or at least offered to make dinner first but didn't want to fracture the fine bubble of trust Heath seemed to have in him.

Heath held his coffee cup like a drowning man and talked. As Joey had guessed long ago, he was not Heathcliff Chopin. He was Goran Chopin, born just outside of Boston from a well-established and quite wealthy family originally from Hungary, having travelled in the late 1930s escaping the rise of Nazi Germany. His father - who had been training in law and preparing for the bar exam - had married his mother - a younger local girl who worked in a nearby bakery - after a short whirlwind romance, despite ringing disapproval from Goran's grandfather. There had been a very quick wedding as the twins - Goran and Katerina - were born within seven months of that wedding. Of course that happiness had swiftly fallen apart. Some of Goran's earliest memories were of the fights and the hurled insults. He and Katerina had stayed huddled together in one bed, pledging to never leave each other while shouts rang below them. Goran's mother had then left the family home after five short years, chasing after yet another lover and taking Katerina with her, leaving Goran in a large empty house with his distant, heartbroken father and intensely academic, introverted, Hungarian grandfather. When both had been killed in a car accident two years later, Goran had been made a ward of the state and thrown through various foster homes and orphanages making little impact beyond perpetually being the strange child who read in the corners and avoided all forms of conflict and attempts at adoption. Instead he had thrown himself into working towards becoming fully emancipated at sixteen with access to his inheritance. He had worked his way towards college, constantly achieving high grades and having ideas of law or medicine. Then finally, in the last year of high school a new girl had joined his literature class and he had known from the very start who she was.

_ He lay in her lap under the cherry tree in the college grounds surrounded by their work. Her hair - the exact shade of dark honey - cascaded over one shoulder and he twined it in his fingers making soft, gleaming rings. Katerina's hand was resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat with only a thin layer of cotton between her skin and his. Goran wondered if she could feel the intensity of his desire for her, his yearning to possess her totally, mentally and physically. Her green eyes - mirrors of his own - met his with an unflinching gaze. _

_ “Do you mean it, Goran?” _

_ “I do. Katerina, please live with me. Stay with me. I want to make you a home.”  _

_ So she studied part-time so he could study full-time. She absolutely insisted this had to happen; she had such plans for him and he believed her. She worked her off-days as a waitress in a restaurant-bar downtown and bought home boxes of the food when he had to work late into the night: reading by lamp light in their cramped top floor studio apartment, while she read her books on their patched sofa curled up tightly next to him. Then he would finally put down his work down and they would retire to their bed where - even though he knew he would be condemned to the lowest levels of hell and take her with him - he could love her.  _

“Do you despise me?” he asked Joey. Joey shrugged, thinking back to his own earlier times. To his elder brother and step mother. About closed doors and female moaning.  _ Mommy loves only you Johnny _ . Secrets never spoken. His brother refusing to meet his gaze afterward. He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray - which had appeared as if by magic in the last few days - and leaned on his hand.

“Nah. It can happen.” 

_ It was Autumn when it happened. Katerina had been getting some hassle at work. Nothing major, just a couple of guys who wouldn’t be told no who kept turning up to try their luck. She had mentioned it to Goran over dinner and he had cautioned her but she had simply shrugged it off and wondered about getting a new job. Nothing she couldn’t handle, she was tough enough to handle anything. He had laughed at her ferocity and teased her that she was the tough one of the two. They had carried on as usual. _

_ Then he had stayed late at the library working on his latest assignment. He had been determined to get it done early this time so he could spend more time with her and make the most of the fall. He had been carefully saving what little he had and had made plans to take her up to Vermont for a weekend, just the two of them and see the forests in all their glory. He had images of making love to her in front of a fire as the leaves fell. _

_ Then he had returned home to a door kicked in, hanging off its hinges. Their apartment had been totalled - what little furniture they had was strewn everywhere and overturned. Even the walls had been gouged with sharp objects and there were smears of red on the floor. Goran had stumbled throughout the wreckage, heart thumping against his ribs calling her name over and over but only stone cold silence had answered him. _

"What happened?" Asked Joey, breaking the silent pause. Heath looked distraught; his eyes were gleaming with unshed tears.

_ He searched for her for days - how long he didn't recall - he made inquiries at her work, he contacted her classmates, he checked with her professors. Finally when quizzing a couple of her friends who had worked with her, a name came up: Charlie Malone. The name of the guy who had been attempting to get with her at the restaurant. He came in one night with a gang of men and had got handsy one night. She had fended him off and then had slapped him across the face. He had made seemingly empty threats about finding her so said the other waitress.  _

_ Further research into this Malone finally connected him with the crime gangs and the Irish Mob - the current head of which was one Harry Malone. The father of said Charlie no doubt. They were currently in the business - so gossip said - of trafficking girls. They would lure girls from all-sorts of places and backgrounds in and then those girls would disappear. Rumour said they based out of a warehouse near the docks and that's where Goran should start. _

"Do you remember the Conley Terminal massacre?" Heath suddenly asked in a mild voice which was completely at odds with the white-knuckled grip on his cup.

Joey fought to remember before he vaguely recalled something in the newspapers about three years ago. Bit of gang warfare went down in a warehouse in Boston. Nothing unusual there just sounded like a shoot out that had gone wrong. Very messily wrong. Gunman had turned the gun on himself in the end apparently. 

"You're gonna tell me now that that was you, right?"

_ It had taken several days but Goran had finally found the warehouse and now he stood in the midst of a bloodbath panting heavily and still clutching the two carving knives in his hands. Bodies littered the floor, lying in pools of sticky metallic red. The walls were covered in bullet marks and gouges. The moans of the men had died down now and there was only the eerie droning of machinery ringing in his ears. Goran lightly touched his face with an index finger, not surprised to find it sticky with blood also. His shirt clung wetly to him and he shook with adrenaline. He wasn't done yet. _

_ After a frantic search through the warehouse, he finally found her in one of the offices, cowering in a corner on a stained mattress. Her wrists were tied with duct tape and her beautiful hair was matted and gnarled, straggling over her eyes, one of which was blackened. Her long skirt was torn up around the legs and Goran paled at the blooming bruises on her thighs and stains upon the fabric of her skirt. She had shrunk from him at first and he had fallen to his knees in front of her, sliding the knife between her wrists to release them. _

_ "Oh Goran. What happened? What did you do?" She stammered, horrified by his bloodied appearance. _

_ "We can go home now, Katerina." He answered reaching for her and cradling her face. He wanted to embrace her. "They won't do anymore to hurt you."  _

_ "They already have." She choked, shrinking back from him. His gut had clenched with foreboding and he reached for her. "They have ruined me for you. Oh Goran, we can never go back." _

_ She pushed him away and he stumbled to the floor. Then - before he realised what she was going to do - she had lunged for the very knife he had used to free her. He grasped it quickly, turned it inward and thrust it up. That wicked blade had plunged up into her abdomen and chest, letting loose a trail of blood and misery. The breath stuck in his throat as she flung the knife away and collapsed to the floor with a thick red pool blossoming beneath her. Then he had screamed. _

_ It became blurred after that. He had attempted to crawl to her, gather her broken body into his arms and feel her soul ebb into his own but he had been denied even that. Charlie Malone - covered in slashes but still very much alive - had arrived with his gun and his fury. Goran had lost much of his adrenaline and had been stabbed in the stomach with his own knife, the very twin to the one that had stolen his precious Katerina. Finally, he lay curled on the ground, fighting to keep his insides inside and Charlie Malone leaning over him laughing. _

_ "She's dead then? Pity really. Teach the little bitch a lesson for resisting us." He smirked. "Dirty little whore though, kept calling out your name no matter who was doing her. And we all had a go on her. You fuck her too, boy?" He then reached for Goran's chin and pushed him onto his back, pushing his matted hair away from his face. "You do look a lot like her, though. Bit messed up of course but still a pretty face.” Malone kicked his legs apart and worked at his own belt buckle. "May as well see. Let's see if you fuck as good as your little slut of a sister." _

_ And with that, the red mist had descended upon Goran and he burst forth with a bellow of fury. He had attacked Malone with all his anguish laid bare. He paid little attention to his own injuries as he pulled, tore and destroyed the man, ripping through flesh like an animal, flaying the skin and breaking the bones. How he had done it he did not know but soon afterwards, Charlie Malone was little more than meat on the floor. _

Joey looked like he was going to be sick but he didn't stop listening.

"So now you know." Said Heath quietly. "I am a monster of a man not fit for society. Most likely a danger to you too."

There was a silence in the apartment. The coffees were stone cold in their cups by now, milk beginning to congeal in thin white circles in the dark gold liquid. There was still the cloying smell of sugar from the pastries and Joey wondered about closing the lid. There were four cigarette butts in the ashtray and the blinking green display on the oven proclaimed the time as 1:03am. The sounds of traffic outside had lessened to merely a background rumble. Joey wordlessly got up from the bistro table, went to the fridge, pulled out two beers, popped them, put them both on the table and wished he had a bottle of paint-stripper level whisky.

"That was like three years ago, right? How the fuck did you get from Boston to here?"

Heath looked at the beer and then to Joey. He seemed genuinely shocked that Joey hadn’t started dialling 911 on him. His face was such a picture of stunned silence that Joey had to laugh. His stomach clenched with the pain of trying to stop laughing but he couldn't help it. Wiping his eyes he looked up.

“Look man, you have had three weeks to tear me apart and eat me. I have given you my spare key and you ain’t murdered me yet. I dunno, maybe you have murdered yourself out or something.” he laughed ruefully and ran his hands through his hair. “Look man, it’s not like you did it for a shitty reason, you had a perfectly good reason. Those guys were fuckers. They deserved it. The news said those fuckers were traffickers and drug runners so ya probably did the world a favour. And it’s not like you were found out. Shit. You know what I mean.”

Heath gave a harsh laugh.

“I suppose I never thought of it that way. You are truly a unique being, Joey.” 

"So you gonna stay?" Joey hoped his voice didn't sound too pleading.

"If you are happy for me to?"

"No problems here."


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Goran remembers how he survived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short self-contained one this time and sorry it's so short. 
> 
> I am always intrigued as to how Hakkai got out of Hyakugan Moah's castle to be found by Gojyo.

_ Goran woke up to a sea of clinical white so bright that he was blinded and an antiseptic smell so strong it slicked the back of his tongue. He lay on his back, on a bed covered by a single sheet. His mouth was dry and his body ached but with a muted ache that Goran guessed was down to extensive and strong painkillers. The ache centred on his abdomen and a cursory twitch of fingers under the sheet discovered a large, thick dressing pad on the area, firmly taped down. A further exploration with fingertips found further bandages and dressings littering his body like snow drifts and he soon realised that one eye was fully covered by another thick dressing. Evidently, he had been found by someone and he had been taken to a hospital. The thought that he wasn’t dead was so overwhelming that he put his hands to his eyes. Well, eye. _

_ “Aha - sleeping beauty finally awakes. And no kiss from a prince needed. And how are we feeling, Goran Chopin?” _

_ Goran tilted his head in the direction of the voice and with his one open eye, he spied a man sat at the foot of his bed in a hospital issue armchair. He was tall, dark haired, unshaven and clad in a labcoat with an embroidered name and badge on it that Goran couldn’t make out without his glasses. The man's pose was languid in the deep-seated chair, sprawled back against the rest and slumped down with legs lightly crossed and arms draped lazily over the sides. A thin plume of smoke issued from the end of a cigarette that was held loosely in the fingers of his right hand. And he was smiling. The kind of smile that seemed less pleasant and more predatory. _

_ Goran shivered involuntarily and the movement seemed to catch the man's attention. He pushed himself out of his chair, flicking his cigarette out of the open window and circled the bed slowly, finally leaning over Goran as if he was surveying a specimen or stalking prey. Steel grey eyes bore into Goran’s own as the man observed him, barely inches away from him. Their breaths almost intermingled.  _

_ "Do you remember what happened?" The man - the doctor - asked. “At the warehouse, what you did …” _

_ Goran nodded and the oximeter on his finger suddenly sounded with an alarm showing his heart rate was climbing too high. How could he not remember? The loss of Katerina slammed into him like a tsunami of pain and grief. His mind flooded with her beautiful face crumpling as she fell to the ground, blood flowing from her beautiful, broken body. Goran’s guts and heart ached and he felt his gorge rise with nausea. His one good eye flooded with unshed tears and his bandaged one stung, which told him it wasn't lost yet. He was almost disappointed. It seemed so wrong that Katerina had lost so much and yet he still lived. For a split second he wished that the doctor watching him would draw a blade and slice through his throat, ending his life instantly and releasing him from this sense of loss and misery. _

_ And for a split second that doctor's expression suggested that he would like to do nothing more than do just that. However, that malicious, hungry, expression ebbed away almost instantly when a nurse entered the room. _

_ "We heard an alarm, Dr Jenison. Is the patient okay?" _

_ "Absolutely peachy, Nurse Holden. He's just a little shocked about waking up but we are making friends here. And nothing a little rest won't sort out, will it Mr Chopin?" _

_ The nurse looked to Goran and tilted her head to one side making her dark curls bob insistently. Goran had the distinct feeling of being viewed as a sacrifice on an altar rather than a patient. The nurse gave him another lingering glance - which could have been anything from sympathy to fear - before turning on her heel and closing the door with a soft click. The doctor watched her go. _

_ "Lovely girl, that one. So deliciously uptight and yet so very biddable." He turned back to Goran and let his fingers dance along Goran's bare arm, circling gently around the cannula that was taped in place on his flesh. The oximeter alarm was still blaring insistently and Goran's head rung with it. The doctor then reached over for a switch by his head and something cold oozed into his arm and suffused through his very veins. Within minutes he felt a strange juxtaposition between feeling as heavy as lead and yet floating and the urge to vomit tapered into a feeling of ongoing queasiness. The oximeter alarm stopped to it’s gentle beep and he struggled to focus on the doctor's smiling face. _

_ "There, that's better isn't it? All nice and calm again. My own blend that one, perfect for the more … shall we say … hysterical patient. Well, now, let's start by filling in those missing weeks. Some helpful soul burned that warehouse to the ground but luckily, you were found just outside the wreckage almost dead with your insides on the outside. Some kind-hearted EMT saw that you were just alive, loaded you into an ambulance and bought you to the main hospital. You died on the table at least twice." His expression was gleeful. "Lucky for you, I happened to be on secondment in trauma. I oversaw your treatment and once we got the inside bits back inside you, I organised your transport here." He grinned. It was toothy. "So here you are. Houtou Psychiatric Hospital and I am Doctor Neil Jenison." _

_ He smelled of cigarettes, coffee and antiseptic. Goran studied him through his good eye seeing those cool grey eyes appraising him. He felt naked. The bed now felt more like an autopsy table. Jenison continued. _

_ “We rescued you because we want to heal you. We know what you did and we want to help you.” His voice was suddenly soft and insinuating, almost purring. He reached out and touched Goran’s eye. The bandaged one. It throbbed painfully. “You can help us here. We want to treat you and use your treatment to help others. You will be safe here if you help us. Do you agree, my little demon?” _

_ As if Goran had ever had a choice. _


	9. Past Experiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Goran is not the only one who carries an uncomfortable past, Joey is hit full in the face with a reminder of his own awkward past.
> 
> Luckily he forgot his umbrella.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter this time and a bit more plot and backstory for Joey. I have done multi-chapters before but a very long time ago so a bit out of practice and there are so many awesome extended fics for the Saiyuki boys that I feel quite unworthy at times,
> 
> I have no idea if anyone is following this or is still interested in it but I hope someone somewhere is enjoying it!

Joey locked the bar and drew the shutters down before turning up his collar to prepare for the walk home. Fuck it was cold and fuck it was late. Office Christmas parties could seriously fuck off to the far end of fuck. Every evening this week so far there had been some group or another in the bar yelling, singing and not tipping enough as well as ordering the most ridiculous drinks known to man. 

These latest fuckers, a bunch of assholes from some financial department or other, had shacked up at nine in their open collars and had still been partying until 2am, ordering endless rounds of draft beers and vodka chasers with several vomiting in the bathrooms only to stagger out and carry on slinging them back. The only reason Joey hadn't chucked them out was that their money was good and their bar bill was way into triple figures. Just as well, the clean up had been ridiculous.

It was past three now and bitterly cold. Joey shoved his hands deep into his pockets and hunched up against the biting wind, vaguely wondering if the star-obscuring clouds above him meant that snow was in the air. At least he had a scarf now for a bit of extra warmth and buried the lower half of his face in it, letting the soft yarn tickle his nose. Heath - whose skills and talents seemed endless - had produced a ball of wool the other day and started knitting, looping a rich red scarf around Gojyo's neck mere hours later. It felt good to have it around him this evening and he had to confess of being a bit excited for the thick mittens that Heath had promised would be following. 

He thought of Heath then. He would be asleep by now he reckoned: lying as still as a corpse on the right side of the queen sized bed. It had freaked Joey out at first seeing him laid out like that as still as a statue and barely breathing. However, he had to admit the guy slept soundly despite the freaky position and didn’t move at all in the night, which was probably the best you could hope for when sharing a bed with a random person.

And Heath was still a random person. He may be living in Joey’s apartment: receiving mail, cooking meals, cleaning up the crap and doing the laundry but he wasn’t a roommate. Heath attended his lectures and tutorials at NYU, then stayed in the library until about six, made dinner, read books then went to bed. Aside from their late discussion where he had revealed his background, he had revealed nothing else since and Joey hadn’t asked. It was like living with a particularly unassuming butler and Joey was uncomfortable.

He had never really had anyone around him for this long before. Much of his relationships - both romantic and platonic - had come and gone like the wind. One night stands with no strings were a damn sight easier than trying to maintain a relationship and he had had several of those recently in a bid to avoid Heath. In Joey’s world, relationships never worked well in that regard. Even friends had come and gone. Oh sure he had buddies: friends and acquaintances he could call on for a drink or a hand of poker but never anyone who he had wanted to actively seek out for company let alone live with. The last person to get that close had been Benji nearly a year ago and look how that jerkoff had screwed him over. Fucked off one night with the rent money and half of Joey’s stuff, leaving him to be kicked out of their apartment. It was only having a chill landlord who was happy to wait for the rent, provided Joey did some handyman stuff for him and a first wages sub from Kazandra that he had managed to stay afloat at all.

A cold wet touch on his head informed him that snow was beginning to fall. With any luck it would stay light until he got back home.

As he turned onto Bleeker, he suddenly had the familiar sensation of being followed and realised he had been for some time. The crunch of his boots on gravel were faintly echoed by another set and there was definitely the faint sound of another’s breathing. Fucking shit. Really? Cold as balls and late as fuck and he had to have been made a mark by some mugger with a deathwish. Joey could take care of himself in most kinds of situations but he really couldn’t be fucked to deal with this tonight. He lengthened his stride ever so slightly and heard the sound of the feet behind him also increasing in speed. Shit.

Once he got to the first junction, he broke into more of a sprint, taking a random corner and disappearing down an alleyway. That should buy him some time to double back. Snow was falling thickly now, large flakes eddying around and already starting to litter the ground. Joey looked out from his alley and was just about to make a break for the relative safety of 6th Avenue when a solid body barrelled into him and sent him sprawling into the alleyway.

Joey felt himself being hauled up by his jacket and thrust against a wall. Cold wetness oozed around his hair and neck. He lashed out with a fist but only caught a glancing blow to his assailant's cheek and received the same in kind which glanced his head against the concrete and had him seeing stars.

"Fuck man, just take my wallet and shit and fuck off."

The man - definitely a great hulking fuck of a man - leaned in.

"We ain't here for that." He said, his voice thick and breath smelling of cigarettes. Cheap roll-ups Joey recognised, trying not to wrinkle his nose in distaste. "We are chasing a debt."

Joey shook his head and then got a good look at actually who the 'we' in the alley was. Aside from the big guy who pretty much ticked every box on the 'muscles of the group' form; there was a shorter man with dark hair and a good quality dark wool coat and another man looking shifty in a beat up bomber jacket. They were crowded around him now, making sure he couldn't run for it. 

"A debt?" He said, genuinely confused. Joey had done some shady dealings in his lifetime but as far as he knew he was pretty clean these days. His days of backstreet deals, fights and petty robbery were long gone and good riddance to them. When Benji had left the apartment the last dregs of that life had gone with him. Joey had found he kind of liked the straight and narrow: you felt less like pissing yourself every time you saw a cop and it was kinda good that you didn't have to eye up every guy as a potential mark.

"You are Joe Shand, Benji Mason's guy."

Joey groaned. Too good to be true. No wonder he thought about Benji tonight. It had been nearly a year since he had seen the fucker and thought he'd be in the clear but oh no. Dark Coat guy seemed to take this groan as the green light for his assent and leaned forward, his voice low and menacing. Up

"Your sneaky little buddy Benji owes us big time. Ran off with some of our stock and has been selling it. When we finally caught up with the little fucker he tells us he has given it all to you as his go-to guy." As if for good measure Muscles punched him across the jaw and he stumbled across the alleyway ground, now slushy with snow. Joey nursed his jaw and gave a barking laugh of derision.

Of course Benji was still around pulling this kind of crap. Every other week he had seemed to be into something seedy: from running illegal cabs to rigging bets on backroom bar brawls Benji Mason was there making it happen. Joey would never have had him pegged for drug dealing though; he always seemed to avoid that shit, calling drugs the poor man's last resort. Things must have been bad if he was skimming.

"I don't know what bullshit Benji has fed ya but I don't do shit anymore." He tried to push himself up but Muscles booted him hard in the bellym MMPnow." He gagged on bile as another kick nearly had him vomiting.

Dark Coat held up a hand to stop leaving Joey panting on the ground.

"And what makes you think we believe the shit you are peddling?" He said.

Joey grimaced.

"Because I would fucking drop him in it if I did for dragging me back in!" He spat vehemently. "Telling you I ain't seen Benji for months and I don't fucking know anything about him."

Dark Coat went quiet for a minute before looking up at Bomber Jacket who was silent and unmoving. 

"Seems his story checks out." He said calmly, brushing snow from his collar with black leather clad fingers. "Okay, use the silencer and get him in the temple."

"What?!" Joey was attempting to push himself upright but Muscles thrust him back down and kept a solid foot on his chest. Bomber jacket had pulled a nasty-looking handgun from his pocket and was matter of factly screwing on the silencer. Joey felt his stomach drop in fear.

"No eye witnesses and no knowledge, better you not get the opportunity to go blabbing about this to anyone." Said Dark Coat. "Besides, who would miss you?"

Fuck. Joey went limp at the thought and closed his eyes. It was true really. Who would give a flying fuck if he was shot in an alley? The cops would investigate for all of a day before finding no next of kin and writing it off. The only fuckers that would care would be Kazandra and the landlord but he was replaceable in both insistences. Anyone could work in a bar and Heath would pay the rent, he was good like that. Joey rested his head on the damp ground and let the icy slush seep into his hair.

A shot fired. He didn't feel it. Maybe death was painless after all.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Ah well, I bought him an umbrella."

Joey blinked open his eyes to see a distinctive silhouette in the alley. It was Heath, indeed holding two umbrellas, one in each hand. A light dusting of snow covered his hair, his long winter coat and the lamplight reflected a sheen off his glasses.

"Why are you here?" Joey asked hoarsely and Heath shook his head. 

"No matter. As they said, no one will miss me. But it does seem you need a hand." 

Joey laughed at the stupidity of it all and stared up at the swirling eddies of white above him.

"Yeah I suppose I do."

Bomber Jacket looked to Dark Coat and there was a single second before Heath darted forwards like a lion pouncing in its prey, sliding between the two men and lunging out an elbow to catch Muscles in the throat then using the momentum of the move to bring the umbrella whirling around into Dark Coat and landing a glancing blow. Bomber Jacket fired another round which scored down the wall and Heath waded in, delivering a powerful kick to the chest with such force that sent the man sprawling. Joey rolled onto his side and started to try to push himself up as Heath moved back towards him with his arms held in a fighting stance. However, his hands were not curled fully into fists; he looked relaxed and open. 

"I warned you what I was and what I could be, Joey." He said slowly. 

And with that he blocked Dark Coat's incoming punch and slammed his own fist upwards in a perfect uppercut that cracked the man's jaw and had him drooling blood. He then followed up with powerful kick to the sternum which sent Dark Coat flying into the wall and landing with a wet thump. Bomber Jacket attempted to grab Heath's throat from behind to pry him off and Heath slammed his whole body forwards, throwing Bomber Jacket over his back and slamming him to the floor with a move that could have come straight from a judo class. Twin pops and a strangled scream told Joey that Bomber Jacket's arms had been dislocated and he struggled to keep from vomiting as Heath swept low and cleanly broke one the man's lower legs with a sickening cracking noise. Muscles was on his feet by now advancing on them both with groans of fury but Heath was faster, lunging out, fingers jabbing hard into his throat and scythed his legs out from under him with a deftly executed kick. A further dull thud from the direction of the ground indicated that Muscles wouldn't be getting up for some time. Heath then turned back to Dark Coat who was staggering up looking dazed but malevolent. Joey could finally see the washed out features of the man: his dark hair and eyes seeming darker still in the ashen expression of pain on his face.

"You will not touch him again." Said Heath calmly enough with a core of menacing ice in his tones. Dark Coat went to answer but Heath moved fluidly forward, spun him neatly and slammed him fully against the wall again, gripping his throat. The man shrieked and gurgled with pain and blood around his broken jaw and thrashed furiously, only stopping when Heath dislocated his shoulder with a firm wrench. "I said, you not touch him again. We shall never speak of this and neither will you. Next time I cannot guarantee that I will be so well controlled." He threw Dark Coat to the ground like he was discarding a garbage bag and moved towards Joey who stared back at him.

"How did you do that?" He said torn between horrified and impressed, still swallowing the urge to vomit.

"There will be time later, we need to go now. Can you walk?"

"Yeah kinda."

How they got back to the apartment Joey didn't know. Heath seemed to be strung tighter than a guitar; he was so full of adrenaline he was almost vibrating. Joey himself was exhausted. His torso was throbbing thanks to his beating and he could barely put one foot in front of the other. But he did. They did. The snow swirled around them resting then soaking into coats and clothes leaving them wet and shivering but they still walked on. Heath murmured about hailing a cab but Joey shook his head. The walk was torturous but he wanted to carry on, feel every injury and reaffirm that he was indeed still alive and that Heath was beside him also living and breathing. Every step seemed to ring with reassurance.

They stumbled through the door of the apartment and Joey flopped onto the sofa with a groan of pain. Every rib seemed to be pulsing against his lungs.

"That fucker Benji!" He shouted into the cushions. "Cannot fuckin' believe he was at the center of it all. If he ever shows up here, he is fucking dead, man."

He raised his head to see Heath hovered over him with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol. He accepted both gratefully. Heath looked contrite.

"He did actually show up here. Seemed surprised to see me and made some crass comments which I didn't appreciate. He then wanted to know where he could find you and I refused to tell him. I am afraid he left quite angry."

Joey ran a hand through his still snow-damp hair hair and swallowed his Tylenol. The action made his jaw throb and he wondered just what kind of bruise he would find there in the morning. 

"No need to feel bad, it sounds like Benji. Fucker never did learn how to be polite." He reached into his pocket for his smokes and thankfully found them crumpled but dry. He lit up and took a drag. His ribs groaned with pain at the action and he hissed. "Thought he'd fucked off long ago but nope. Hoping for the best there." He looked at Heath who was rummaging in a large tupperware box which appeared to be full of medical paraphernalia. When had he ever had a first aid box in this apartment beyond a box of beer? More to the point, when had he ever owned a large tupperware box? Joey suddenly wondered exactly how many other things Heath had bought for the apartment to improve their lives, he then had a sudden thought as Heath produced several band-aids and some wound wipes and began to open them.

"Wait, did they hurt you at all?"

There was a gentle laugh from Heath as he cleaned out and applied the large bandaid to two deep scrapes on his neck. Nail marks. Had to be nail marks. Joey had a vague memory of one of the men clawing at Heath before the man had attacked. 

"Just a scrape but I’d rather not let any more dirt get into it. Although this is nothing. You know I have had worse." He said wryly with a sly grin. "A few scrapes won’t fell me and besides I rather think you bore the brunt of the attack. Does anything feel broken, Joey? They did hit you rather hard."

Joey shrugged, trying not to think of his ribs and touching his fingers to the scars of his cheek. There was an irony in Heath's “I have had worse’ phrase. If only Heath knew exactly how much worse Joey had had it in his past. The amount of times Johnny had taken him to the local ER in the past with broken bones and wounds, all accidental and nothing - absolutely nothing - to do with an abusive and unstable stepmother at home at all, no. He had had his arms in plaster and ribs bandaged several times in his life so far and had pretended to all and sundry - especially the social worker who would often visit a week later - this really was nothing. 

Still Heath looked so concerned, Joey actually felt sorry for the guy.

"Yeah they got me good but don't think anything's broken. Not worth an ER visit just yet."

Heath hung up their coats on the rack by the door and tutted at the wet dirt still clinging to them.

"I should bill that friend of yours for the dry-cleaning." He said primly and Joey burst out laughing, laughing so hard that tears stung his eyes and his chest burned with the laughter and the pain mingling. Heath looked him up and down. "Are you hysterical now, Joey?"

Joey wiped his eyes and wrapped his arms around his belly, bending low over the sofa.

"You could say that. Suppose I should try to go to bed." Joey stubbed out his abandoned cigarette and tried to stand. His legs threatened to wobble again but he forced them forward towards the direction of the bed. "Look man, thanks. Listen, not anyone would have done what you did tonight and yanno ... thanks."

Surprisingly enough Heath looked scandalised in response and Joey was confused.

"What?'

"Joey you are filthy. Half a New York alleyway is on you and we need to look at those ribs properly. There is no way you are just going to bed like that."

And with no further words and ignoring all Joey's protests, Heath made him bypass the bed and ushered him into the tiny bathroom.

The bathroom in the apartment was small but functional. Joey knew he was lucky to actually have a bathtub in the apartment as most didn't but the tenement was one of the older buildings in the district and so had space for a tub with a shower over it. Even more unusual was the fact it had a tiny private window looking out on the back of another building. Just as well, as a hot shower in the building could send every alarm in the place bellowing. Lined up along the little windowsill were all his toiletries but now there were twice as many. Heath's toothbrush, toothpaste and razor were neatly arranged in a beaker next to a soap dish that had obviously been recently purchased. Another little touch.

Joey sat himself down on the side of the bath, unbuckled his belt and started to pull off his top, only stopping when he realised that Heath wasn't leaving the bathroom. On the contrary, he was unbuttoning his own shirt. The bathroom suddenly seemed to get smaller. Joey stopped with his long sleeved t-shirt half off. Heath stopped also.

"I also want to check those ribs of yours." He said by way of explanation. "I have some rudimentary medical training and can at least assess you."

That still didn't explain why he was taking off his own shirt but Joey still removed his top anyway. He had nothing to hide particularly. He tossed the shirt at the laundry basket, noted Heath's startled expression and looked down. His torso was a patchwork of red and purple bruising, in places already puffed and angry. One particularly angry one seemed to have the outline of a boot across his abdomen.

"Fuck."

"Well they certainly tried to cause damage." Said Heath reaching across to touch. "Let's see."

Heath's fingers were feather-soft as they traced down each rib, gently pressing and waiting for Joey's reaction as he did so. Joey made noncommittal noises and occasional murmurs of pain but ultimately he couldn't help but enjoy the touch. Oh sure the ladies - and the occasional guy if he was honest - would happily touch, feel and fondle around this body in the same way as he would do to them when he took them to bed but this was different. This was the kind of caring touch that came with no strings or expectations; the kind of secure touch that Joey hadn't had since Johnny had walked out on him. Joey's stomach lurched at the thought.

Heath looked up.

"Nothing is broken I believe. Although his one." He brushed along Joey's left side "Could be cracked so no heavy lifting … Now your head, you cracked that wall pretty hard so let's check. Turn around please."

Those fingers slid into his damp hair and Joey felt a shock roll down his spine. Normally he would shoot down any attempts to touch his hair but Heath's gentle ministrations were good. Really good in fact. Joey cursed inwardly as he felt himself harden. Fuck fuck fuck. Heath was checking him for head injuries and all Joey could think about was how good those clever fingers would feel around his dick. Joey reasoned it was down to a serious lack of action for months and anything would get him turned on. But still. He shifted in his jeans, letting the zipper seams rub against his dick as Heath's fingertips danced around his scalp. It was good.

"It's all good." Said Heath cheerfully, "Just bruises." He untangled his fingers and Joey could have cried at the loss.

"Thanks man." He said, hoping his breathlessness didn't show. "Gonna, shower, unless you wanna?"

Heath was already leaning past him to reach for the towels and Joey noticed how close they were. He could see the damp spikes of Heath’s hair falling lower over his eyes and the paleness of his skin in the bare bulb of the bathroom. Heath's still damp shirt was open and his nipples were hardening in the cool air. Joey slid his eyes downwards noting the defined muscles of Heath's torso, marred by the reddened and rough skin of the scar that gouged across it. He could see the rise and fall of Heath's chest, almost feel his very breath on his own skin. 

He then noticed that Heath was staring back at him, pupils so wide the green was barely visible. The space between them suddenly seemed too close but yet far too far away. Joey’s mouth went dry as he could smell the scent of Heath now, woody and clean like fresh rain on a warm garden. He felt the gap between them narrow and Joey tilted his head a little nearer.

It was Heath who broke the spell.

“You go first.” he said finally, handing over one of the towels. Their fingers brushed lightly, eyes met and Joey had never wanted to jerk off so hard in his life. “You need to rest sooner than I. I’ll put together some food for when you get out.”

Heath then left the bathroom, at some speed but still managing to gently shut the door behind him, leaving Joey ablaze with physical desire and fighting to get his still-damp clothes off as fast as possible. Despite his aching body he plunged under the cool shower, wrapping his hand firmly around his cock and coming hard against the porcelain with muffled groan and feeling all kinds of wrong.


	10. Happy Christmas to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to Christmas with Neil. It's not a happy.one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are still following :) this is still rattling along
> 
> Once again this is not an example of a BDSM relationship. It is an abusive one.

_ “It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.” _

_ Neil looked up from the book he was reading and looked over at Goran who was now awake, curled on his side with his arms wrapped around his belly and looking bleary-eyed. The man had passed out naked on the floor about three hours ago after their last session which is where Neil had left him. These latest round of meds were indeed useful for keeping Goran docile and pliable, however they had the unfortunate side effect of sending him off into Lala-Land for hours at a time and sometimes he would succumb to the drugged haze during their sessions and fade in and out of consciousness. At first it had been something of a turn on, being able to move and manipulate a passive body for his own physical fulfilment but now Neil was finding it rather dull. He would need to tweak Goran's next round of scripts to get the reactions he wanted. _

_ "It is." He said, looking over his book as the prone man, seeing a silvery trail of semen drying on Goran's thighs catching the light, it made a delightful contrast to the thin, red switch lines on his back. _

_ "And to what do I owe this seasonal epiphany?" _

_ Goran pushed himself to a sitting position on shaking arms as the scarcely healing wound on his abdomen - traces of red oozing through his dressing - clearly hurt and he winced as he did so. Neil had worked him over harder today - he had had an irritating day at the hospital and had needed to do a little  decompressing and Goran was obviously feeling it now.  _

_ "Do you not celebrate Christmas, then?" Asked Goran. Neil gave a lazy smile. _

_ "I really should. Trees, presents and all that." He waved it off. "However I find the triple time offered by the hospital for one of the quietest shifts of the year far too attractive. Pays for my holidays I find. I may even make it to Mauritius this year. Why do you ask my little demon?"  _

_ Goran eased himself up off the floor and reached for his boxers and lounge pants which still remained puddled on the sofa from where Neil had removed them and tossed them. Goran eased them on over his hips which still spotted dark finger mark bruises and Neil also noted his wince of discomfort as he did so. It truly was amazing how much this man could withstand; Neil had done his very worst to him this evening and he had simply accepted it as his due. Finally taking pity on him, Neil tossed him the bottle of Tylenol and he fumbled to catch it. With practised movements he worked the catch loose and swallowed the chalky pills with the glass of water left out on the coffee table just for that purpose. _

_ "I wondered if you would like me to do anything for the occasion. I could cook for us." Said Goran, almost a little shyly, picking up his long sleeved t-shirt from the arm of the sofa, pulling it on and covering up the rapidly purpling strap marks on his wrists. _

_ Neil put his book down, raised himself out from his chair and approached Goran. The man seemed to recoil from him slightly but still stood firm. Neil grasped the man's chin and tilted his face up. Green eyes met his own and Neil searched for the emotion within. Goran was such a beautiful man: classically beautiful features with high cheekbones, gentle full-fringed eyelashes, defined muscles and full lips which invited one to bite down on. He was like a Grecian statue come to life: a male Galatea that held a killer within. Neil wanted to keep him, desecrate him, ruin him. He leaned in and kissed him, pushing his tongue into Goran's mouth and tasting him. Goran resisted at first but then acquiesced, yielding to the kiss.  _

_ Goran had been a resident - guest? Servant? Pet? Patient with benefits? - at Neil's apartment for six weeks now. In that time he had proven to be more domestic than even Neil had expected. He kept wanting to help around the apartment, cook, clean and tidy up. It had been disturbing at first to see his little experiment wanting to make himself at home but in the end a few tweaks of medication and a large pile of books was all that was needed to bring him back under control. Still, the man deserved a treat every so often. _

_ He released Goran who seemed breathless. _

_ "Very well, you can order in what you need to do a Christmas dinner. Now go and shower off." Goran looked grateful and then left the room. _

_ Neil actually laughed out loud at the gratitude, tracing his own lips with a finger. He would allow Goran to do this one little thing and then he would remind him exactly why he was with Neil in the first place. Neil crossed the apartment to the kitchen and went to the high cupboard above the burners. Pulling down a lockable case he rummaged around before drawing out a few small bottles and a pack of shrink-wrapped syringes. Excellent. He still had some supplies left. It would be a wonderful Christmas present to see how Goran reacted to this new tranquilliser he had had developed. Research indicated that some of the more interesting side effects included psychosis and extreme mania.  _

_ He heard the shower running and imagined Goran twisting on the bed, fighting to keep those delicious base emotions of his under control, pulling furiously against a set of wrist restraints. He would need to get stronger ones especially. Maybe he should wrap them up. With a little bow on top. _

_ Happy Christmas indeed. _


	11. Happy Christmas to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Heath and Joey have a much happier Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still going! And have a fluffy chapter. Sorry it's such a slow burn but happier times are coming.

Christmas Eve rolled around and Joey did the final lock up, silently rejoicing in his two days off. His injuries had mostly healed but he still ached after a shift and just wanted to spend the next two days in bed or on the sofa and pretend Christmas didn’t exist. Even the thought of a few easy girls in the bar who suggested that he come and play Santa with them couldn't persuade him. Luckily it wasn't snowing this time, the small white drifts up against the storefronts were dissolving into slush so at least he could hopefully walk back and save cab fare for a decent six-pack of beers.

"Quite an early finish tonight. I was hoping you would."

It was Heath, waiting for him on the street corner, wearing his now-customary thick winter coat but now with a green scarf and thick black mittens he had knitted himself. His features seemed to glow in the pale light of the lamp above him making him look almost otherworldly. He carried his leather satchel of papers and books along with the canvas bag he used for shopping and he wore the kind of smile that actually gave Joey a warm feeling. Before he could say anything to Heath, the man lifted his hand and hailed a cab. 

"We don't need-"

"It's Christmas and this bag is heavy." Responded Heath sweetly.

Fuck it. Joey could buy beer any day.

Joey pondered over Heath's odd behaviour all the way up to the apartment. Ever polite, this week the dark haired man now seemed to have kicked his politeness into overdrive and was treating Joey almost as if he was made of glass. Since their moment in the bathroom he had kept a careful distance from Joey for the last few days, almost afraid to touch him. Almost as if Joey would break if he came too close. He had moved over in the bed, sleeping so close to the edge that Joey wondered how he hadn't fallen out and was always up before Joey even stirred. At first Joey assumed that it was simply Heath letting him recover but the sudden cool politeness was making him increasingly uncomfortable.

"I hope you don't mind." Said Heath reaching for his keys. "I know you said you didn't celebrate Christmas but I did a few things for you."

_ "It's Christmas Eve, tomorrow." _

_ Joey looked up from his magazine at Heath who was staring out of the apartment window from the table. His books and papers were still in disarray indicating that he had every intention of returning to them. He often liked to do his extra work at the apartment on Sunday evenings, knowing that Joey would most likely be home in the early evening also. _

_ "Is it?" Joey asked suddenly. He had genuinely forgotten in his recovery from the attack in the alley a few days ago. _

_ "Would you mind if I cooked?" Said Heath without preamble. Joey looked surprised. _

_ "Hey man if you want to make more food I ain't ever gonna stop ya. Feel free to do whatever." _

Apprehensive now, Joey stepped through the door and Heath turned on the lights. Around the bare brick walls were a few simple paper garlands hung up, a new throw in a warm red decorated the sofa and in the corner of the tiny living area next to the TV was a small plastic tree up to Joey's waist with a few baubles and a string of coloured lights that twinkled in the branches. The whole apartment smelled of sugar, spice and cooking and Joey's heart clenched and he swallowed.

Most surprising of all was the battered little bistro table which was filled with food: a glistening ham so basted that it looked varnished was surrounded by bowls of buttered potatoes, salads shining with dressings and vegetables layered together in a rainbow of colour. A pecan pie was issuing that warm, sugary aroma that had Joey already drooling and there was even a plate of gingerbread shapes on the battered coffee table. 

There didn't seem anything to say except

"What the fuck is this?" 

Heath flushed and suddenly looked intensely uncomfortable as he paused in the middle of rolling up his shirt sleeves. He looked at his hands and then tried to look anywhere else but at Joey.

"I-I wanted to thank you. For everything you have done for me." Heath gestured to the table. "I wanted to do something for you and I didn't really know what to get for the man who picked me up off the sidewalk and gave me a place to stay. Please." 

And there it was again. The hint of something warm between them. An aching familiarity. Joey moved past Heath to take his seat and they brushed each other as they moved. Joey felt a shiver run down his spine as he felt the warmth from Heath's bare arm bleeding through his thin long sleeved shirt. He looked at Heath and caught a flash of those green eyes. The distance between them was narrowing and Joey could smell the cooking scent on Heath's skin and see the line of moisture across his lips. He went to lean in and there was an imperceptible tilt to Heath's head and they were so close, before Heath suddenly looked away and started loading up a plate before Joey could object.

"Thanks, man." Replied Joey swallowing nervously but his voice was genuinely warm. His eyes stung and he knew it wasn't the steam of the food. "No one's ever done me a Christmas party before."

This much was true. Christmas growing up for Joey had mainly been hiding in his room while he heard his mother and Johnny as he tried to stop her drinking. Occasionally she would fall asleep early Johnny would sneak in with a KFC and they would eat under the covers laughing at old films but Christmas was never a happy time for Joey. Even as an adult he was usually working to get the double time pay. He wouldn't even have thought of this.

"I mean it Heath. This is … This is great."

Heath's face lit up brightly with an almost beatific smile. Joey felt a shiver down his spine.

“No. Thank you, Joey.” 


End file.
